Chapter Text
first —
You were desperate and stupid. Roommates dissolving into different living situations, leaving you adrift with no time to properly research available listings and vet them in person. You've tried to be gracious to yourself, but the reality is: stupid. Naive.
You found a place, alright, that only asked for cash at any point during the month, no specific pay deadline. Your name on a lease, sure, but it was emphasized that you weren't locking into a fixed term — if you wanted to leave at any point, you were within your rights to do so. You cheerily thought maybe this all worked out in the end.
It sounded like there were gonna be other roommates in the two-storey house, but you haven't seen anyone. Took you a week to get comfortable enough to try the doorknobs on the other doors, but they were locked. The fridge and cupboards were empty. Washing machine empty.
All you had for a landlord was a name and phone number. You never met him, just exchanged all the necessaries over a text exchange that was efficient to a point of rudeness, but you'd dealt with enough asshole landlords in your years to be grateful for a laconic type. You didn't think you'd be receiving long-winded, self-pitying texts from this guy. You actually aren't even sure this guy lives in the country.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. You had a house to yourself, for all intents and purposes, and perfect silence as your new roommate. Coming from a house filled with noise and costume parties and constant drop-in visitors, this was a revelation.
second —
Turns out, you miss the noise. You try to fill it by getting together with your roommates, getting tipsy, and going back to your house. But it's not the same, not even close. Instead you wander around the living room into the kitchen, in your cups, and just look at the house.
There's an old wood-burning fireplace that doesn't look like it's been lit in ages. Lumpy furniture that you don't bother to sit in — looks like it'll send a raggedy spring into your ass cheek if you try. No pictures on the walls.
The fridge now holds your oat milks, strawberries, radishes, feta cheese, and takeout containers. You had to go to the dollar store when you realized there were almost no cooking utensils or cutlery; there had been one spatula with a massive chip broken out of it and one fork. You considered getting a mini-fridge and just having everything in your bedroom, but that wasn't needed. For now. Maybe if the other roommates ever returned, you'd squirrel everything back away.
The house itself is old and slobby. Nothing you'd complain about, of course, but just looks like a house that's had some kind of bare-minimum upkeep to keep the legs standing. Old house charm, you laugh when your friends come visit once.
third —
It's really hard to fall asleep now. You're used to your old street where students would get drunk and fight outside, and cats were seemingly always fighting or fucking, and there were early-morning trucks backing up to stores and restaurants.
This street is quiet, for the city at least. Some rumbly engines and the occasional argument that reaches through the windowpanes, but it's just all too quiet for you. Brown noise on your phone helps a little. But the house itself is the thing that's too quiet. You've spent years listening to your roommates come home wasted with one-night stands, thudding into walls, or even just carrying out their regular nighttime routine, going from the washroom to their bedroom, back and forth to brush teeth and do their protective hairstyles in the bigger mirror and do their skincare regime.
The silence drags on you.
A girlfriend recommends it offhandedly when you're a little mopey about it, even though you know you're very lucky. Just pop one and you're out. You will not care about a thing, trust me.
You worry about creating a dependency, so you hold off for as long as you can. Pat yourself on the back for how long you hold out, though it ends up only being a few weeks. It'll only be when you don't work early the next day. So you do a whole five minutes of research and then down it with a swig from your water bottle.
Then you're waking up in the morning, feeling good and not really able to trace the last vestiges of wakefulness before sleep overtook you. It freaks you out a little, to be honest, but not enough to stop.
You plan it only for the nights that are the hardest: Sundays.
fourth —
You haven't slept with anyone in months.